Poems write themselves, it seems.
They come from hopes and distant dreams.
Of memories of times and places,
seasons, feelings, familiar faces.

A fleeting glance, an observation,
a mood, a smell, a conversation.

Forgotten memories spring to light
from lying dormant, far from sight.
Of longing, loss, of fear and rage,
words all flowing from pen to page.

Pouring forth from deep inside.
Feeling the hurt of broken pride.

The soul stripped bare for all to see.
This masquerade called poetry.